


Anchor

by DHW



Series: Sanctuary [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Light BDSM, Mild Kink, dom!Giles, sub!Buffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-20 11:45:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8247577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: It's been three months since they began their little arrangement. Buffy might be feeling better, but it appears Giles has problems of his own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** A little angst. Much sex. A Little plot. Still shameless. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** Not mine. They belong to the almighty Joss. I’m just playing in his sandpit. Sad, sad times.

It was pouring with rain. The sort of rain you only got in England, beginning with little warning and ending just as abruptly. Fat droplets fell from the steel grey skies, pounding against the roof with a determined sort of ferocity. April showers may have brought May flowers, but as for what October ones brought, Buffy didn’t know. Well, other than the surety that summer was well and truly over. 

With a sigh, Buffy cast her eyes up to the ceiling. Despite the sound of the rain, which had now risen to an almost deafening crescendo, it remained steadfastly blue, the artificial sky as cloudless as a summer’s day. She gave it a wary glance, as if she expected the rain to burst though the be-spelled marble and soak them to the bone. Which she did. The ceiling was supposed to mimic the weather outside, or so Giles had told her, and outside it was most definitely raining. 

“Does it ever rain in here?” she said, tearing her gaze away from the ceiling to inspect her freshly painted nails with a critical eye. A small frown creased her delicate features as she spotted a wrinkle in the semi-dry polish. She let out a tiny growl of annoyance at the sight, reaching into the bag at her side in search of acetone. 

“When it needs to,” Giles replied without looking up, nose remaining steadfastly buried in his book. Buffy rolled her eyes. Sometimes making conversation with Giles was like pulling teeth, especially when he was reading. She watched as he slid his thumb between the yellowing paper, expertly turning the page in a one-handed manoeuvre that had no doubt taken him years to perfect.

“And do you think it _needs_ to now?” she prompted, swiping an acetone-soaked cotton ball over the ruined polish on her right ring finger. Buffy wasn’t dressed for rain, clad in little more than a flimsy halter neck and knee-length skirt. Despite the orange tinted leaves many of the trees now sported, the weather in the garden remained as warm and welcoming as it had in the summer. Buffy revelled in it, delighting in the chance to ditch the dark tights and soft knits of her winter wardrobe once a week. If it was going to rain, Buffy wanted to know. She was damned if she was going to mess up her nails again fumbling for an umbrella. 

“I doubt it,” said Giles, taking a swift sip of his drink. 

Buffy tossed the now beige coloured cotton ball into a zip-lock bag she’d commandeered for the rubbish. Careful not to smudge her other nails, she picked up the small bottle of polish, giving it a quick shake before twisting off the lid with a pleasing crackle. Sand Dollar, Pantone colour of the year. She wasn’t entirely sure it suited her, but Buffy was nothing if not on trend. Especially now she had the salary to keep up with the ever-changing fashions. She was a stylish Slayer, thank you very much. 

The tip of her tongue pressed between her lips in concentration, she dragged the brush against the lip of the bottle to remove the excess liquid and began to paint, covering her nail in one long, meticulous stroke. Satisfied, she screwed the lid back on and tossed it into her cosmetics bag, the clink of glass filling the air as it hit what was probably her perfume bottle.

With a loud sigh, Buffy leant back against the picnic blanket, waving her hands in the air in a vain attempt to make her nails dry faster. 

“Is there something wrong?” said Giles pointedly.

Buffy turned her head to look at him in confusion. She needn’t have bothered. He hadn’t moved, his attention still firmly focused on the book he held. 

“What?”

“You keep sighing.”

“I’m bored.”

“So I’ve come to notice.” He cast a distracted glance in her direction, setting his book down upon the grass beside him. He leant over to grab the large glass pitcher that sat upon the very edge of the picnic blanket, filled to the brim with gently sparkling liquid. Fruit, expertly sliced and diced, bobbed upon the surface, mingling with dark green mint leaves in a glorious fusion of colour and flavour. “Top up?”

Buffy nodded, reaching down beside her and passing him her empty glass. She watched as Giles carefully poured, the wet sound of splashes filling the air he decanted the Pimm’s, fruit and all, into her tumbler. 

Giles liked Pimm’s. It was one of the decidedly more innocuous things Buffy had discovered about him since the beginning of their arrangement. No sunny afternoon was complete without it, or so he had proclaimed, and it absolutely had to be drunk with the full complement of fruit. Pimm’s without mint, strawberries, cucumber and orange was tantamount to sacrilege in the eyes of her former Watcher. Something to do with being Oxbridge educated and almost offensively middle class, apparently; Buffy hadn’t really been listening, too intent upon spearing an alcohol-soaked strawberry at the time. Not that she was complaining. There was something pleasingly genteel about spending a sunny afternoon relaxing with a book and a rather large glass of sweet, fruity liquid, even if the sunshine was the artificial sort. 

“Thanks,” she said as he set her glass down beside her, the strawberries and cucumber slices swirling across the surface of her drink.

“If you’re that bored, you could always go for a walk,” Giles mused as he topped up his own glass before settling back down with the book. “Explore the local area. There’s a rather nice stately home about a mile and a half down the road. Has a particularly beautiful drawing room, as far as I recall.”

She stared at him as though he had grown an extra head. “It’s raining.”

“And? You have a coat.”

Buffy snorted in distaste. “And new suede boots. If you think I’m risking tide marks on £200 worth of shoes, you can think again.” 

“Good Lord, two-hundred?” 

“They’re Kurt Geiger,” she said, defensively. 

“I’m not even going to pretend I know who that is.” 

Buffy pinned Giles with a dark glare as she propped herself up on her forearms. Her gaze, however, softened considerably as she took in his appearance, his expression unguarded as he lost himself once more within the book. There was a quiet air of sadness about him she hadn’t seen in months; certainly not since the spring, back when she’d been hell bent on self-destruction. Back before he’d so gallantly come to her rescue in a very effective, if admittedly unusual, manner. 

Now that she looked, truly looked, she could see the aura of gloom that hung around him, his entire demeanour redolent with it. It lingered in the fine lines etched around his mouth and across his forehead. She could see it in his slumped shoulders, in the way he leant against the dark trunk of the tree, in the slight tremor of his left hand as he took a long draught of his drink. Buffy felt her breath catch at the sight, worry beginning to curl low in her stomach. 

He looked terrible. And was almost certainly hung over to boot. 

There were dark circles around his eyes and a rumpled look about him that spoke of one too many empty pint glasses. Buffy knew he had been elsewhere the previous evening, despite the effort he had gone to in order to persuade her otherwise; the calculated misdirection, his insistence on the need for an early night, the stealthy exit once he believed she was asleep. Nope, he’d gone to the pub. Alone. 

Giles was a man who looked for solace at the bottom of a bottle. Not the healthiest coping mechanism, and certainly not one Buffy approved of, no matter how hypocritical that made her. Sneaking off to drink alone fell distinctly into the category of ‘Not Good’. 

Buffy opened her mouth, the beginnings of a long lecture about the importance of problems, sharing and the subsequent halving of said problems on the tip of her tongue, only to find herself almost immediately closing it again. She slumped a little, the righteous wind knocked out of her sails, her expertly painted lips forming a rosy pout. 

This was Giles. The emotional marathon man, a walking talking advertisement for the dangers of a too-stiff upper lip. He wasn’t like Willow or Xander or Dawn. She couldn’t bully the truth out of him. He’d tell her in his own sweet time or not at all, the latter being the more usual state of affairs between them. 

No, badgering him about it wouldn’t help. In fact, thinking about it, it would probably only make things worse. Buffy frowned. Sharing a no-go, that only left one course of action: to take his mind off it. It seemed some sort of distraction was in order. 

Casting a sly glance at her former Watcher, Buffy pushed herself up into a sitting position, crossing her legs beneath her as she reached for her handbag. A decidedly evil grin curling at the edges of her lips, she carefully searched through the contents of her brown leather bag, a small noise of triumph escaping her throat as her fingers clasped around a tube of moisturiser. 

One distraction coming up. 

Buffy straightened her left leg in a slow, deliberate movement. She coughed loudly, hoping it was enough to draw his attention away from his book as she squeezed a blob of coca-scented cream into her hand. It was one of Giles’ favourite scents; a piece of information Buffy had gathered one rather pleasurable afternoon three weeks earlier, when he’d spent an excessive amount of time rubbing the moisturiser into every inch of her overly sensitised skin. If she knew Giles, which she did, a little reminder of that particularly enjoyable encounter would be enough to lift his spirits. Temporarily, at least. 

Affecting an air of intense concentration, she began to work the lotion into the golden skin of her calf. She let out a quiet moan of appreciation, pitched just low enough to be convincing, as she worked her way past her knee and up to her thigh, gracefully flexing her foot as she lifted her leg. The faint rustle of shifting cloth filled the air. Buffy risked a sideways glance out of the corner of her eye, confident in the success of her distraction, only to find Giles unmoved, his focus steadfastly remaining upon the pages before him. 

No dice. Perhaps a more direct approach was required.

Buffy sighed heavily, snapping the lid of her moisturiser shut with a slap of her palm. A practiced flick of her wrist sent the bottle spinning through the air towards Giles. It hit his thigh with a satisfying smack. Not hard enough to hurt, but with sufficient force to grab his attention. 

Which it did. Spectacularly. 

Buffy giggled as Giles jumped in surprise, inordinately pleased with herself. 

“What?” he said with a sigh, resting his open book on his chest. He pinned her with a glare, his tired green eyes peering at her over the top of his glasses. 

She stared back, nonplussed at his annoyed expression. “I’m still bored.”

“And what, exactly, would you like me to do about it? You’ve already pooh-poohed my previous suggestion.”

A small, coy smile curled at the edge of her lips. She gave them a provocative lick, watching as his eyes followed the movement. “Well, I know something you could do.”

“Oh really?” he said, feigning ignorance. He took a sip of his drink. “And what might that be?”

“You know full well what.” She watched as he rolled his eyes. “Oh come on. Anyone would think you didn’t want to.”

“And there was I thinking you didn’t want to get wet, what with all that talk of rain earlier,” he said drily. Giles turned back to his book, a carefully schooled expression of indifference gracing his features. “Besides, I am rather busy.”

Buffy ignored the innuendo. “No you’re not. And…” She peered at the front cover of his book. “John Le Carre can wait.” 

“Not when I’m about to find out who the mole is, he can’t.”

“Mole schmole,” she said with a glib wave of her hand. “You’ve got a whole two weeks of vacation to find out who the mole is.”

She watched his expression darken ever so slightly at the mention of his holiday. 

“It’s not a vacation, Buffy.”

“Fine, a brief sojourn, then.”

“That’s the same thing,” he snapped.

She rolled her eyes at the sudden viciousness his tone had taken. So that was the problem: his vacation. Considering his less than tolerant response to her gentle teasing, Buffy was prepared to bet her Jimmy Choo’s on it. She would have bet her life, but she wasn’t entirely sure it meant very much. Not when the inability to stay dead seemed to be a somewhat of a recurring theme. It tended to ruin the sincerity of the betting process. 

“Alright, Mr. Thesaurus,” she said, holding up her hands in what she hoped was an apologetic gesture, unwilling to provoke him further. “Accuracy’s difficult when you won’t actually tell me what you’re doing. But you’ve got two weeks of not-a-holiday to finish it in and only one evening of Buffy-based company left, since some of us have to go back to work tomorrow. Do the math.”

“I don’t appear to have a calculator to hand.” He gestured dismissively in her general direction, the drink he held in his hand sloshing over the lip of the glass as he did so. He made a small noise of displeasure as he felt the sticky liquid coat his fingers. He placed his book back down upon his chest as he fished in his trouser pockets for a handkerchief. “And I’ve already told you, I’m off up to Edinburgh on personal business.”

Buffy leant over and plucked the half-empty tumbler of Pimm’s from his hand. “I believe that’s the answer to ‘where’ not ‘what’, but if you want to be all secretive-guy about it, then don’t let me stand in your way.”

“I’m not being secretive. You’re being nosey,” he said with a sniff, dabbing carefully at his fingers, the pristine white of his handkerchief turning a light brown as it soaked up the liquid. Giles flexed his dry, if slightly sticky hand and stuffed the damp square of cloth back into his pocket. He sighed, picking up the set of keys that lay nestled in the long grass beside him. “Oh, very well then.”

“You could sound a little bit more enthusiastic, you know,” she said as she took the keys from his outstretched hand, replacing them with his drink.

Giles rolled his eyes, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips. “I’m sure my attitude will have adjusted accordingly by the time you get back. Top drawer on the right. Bring the box.”

A thrill of anticipation ran through her as she levered herself up off the blanket. She smoothed the creases from her skirt, pleased with herself. “I remember. Anything else?”

“A jug of water wouldn’t go amiss.”

“No problem-o.”

\---

It was the perfect plan. A two birds, one stone kind of plan.

Buffy grinned as she approached the picnic blanket, carefully setting the heavy jug down besides its Pimm’s-filled counterpart. Water sloshed over the rim of the pitcher, leaving a dark mark upon the edge of the tartan fabric. 

“Careful.” 

“Chill out. It’s only water, Giles,” said Buffy, shifting closer to her Watcher. “How’s the attitude?” 

“Improving,” he replied, his green eyes settling on the box in her hands. He set his book down carefully on the blanket and levered himself up off the ground with a grunt. Turning to face her, he reached for the box. “May I?”

Buffy shook her head. 

“I’ll hand it over on two conditions,” she said, holding the small wooden box just out of reach. “One, you and me make with the actual sex. Not that I don’t appreciate what you do, because, yeah, wow. The whole magic fingers thing, which you totally have by the way, is a kind of an understatement. But you might as well get something out of this little deal we have going, too.” She pinned him with a glare. “Besides, you did promise.” 

Giles sniffed, folding his arms as he leant back against the tree. “I did no such thing. I believe what I actually said was that I’d take it into consideration.”

“And you’ve had three months to consider it. If you’re not careful, I’m going to develop some sort of complex or other over the lure of my lady garden.” She grinned as he rolled his eyes. “Less thinking, more doing. That’s what you need.”

“I won’t be _doing_ anything if you don’t give me the box.” 

“Tetchy,” she scolded. “I’ll give you the box when you agree, so quit interrupting. Where was I? Oh, yeah, two conditions. One, sex. Two, you tell me why you’re going away. I don’t like you keeping secrets from me. Especially not the gloomy-making kind.”

“The box, Buffy.”

She lifted her chin, her jaw set defiantly. “Do you accept my terms?”

“I’ll think about it,” he said, deftly plucking the box from her outstretched fingers.

Buffy grinned. She had the distinct feeling she was about to get lucky. 

Possibly in more ways than just one.


	2. Chapter 2

Buffy sat down upon the picnic blanket, crossing her ankles daintily. A thrill of anticipation ran through her as she watched Giles open the small, wooden box. She shivered, despite the considerable heat of the faux sun, feeling the surface of her arms tighten with gooseflesh. 

“Are you sure?” he asked gently, the small golden chain and its corresponding lock nestled in his palm. 

Buffy nodded, lifting her hair away from her neck in assent. A shy smile graced Giles’ lips as he knelt down beside her. He pressed a feather-light kiss to her forehead as he threaded the chain around her neck, the lock snapping shut with a tiny, metallic click. 

Buffy smiled as she felt the cold weight of it nestled against her clavicle. She closed her eyes, reveling in the sense of anticipation, of promise, it brought. A moment later, she felt Giles’ hands tangle in her hair, his long fingers scratching roughly against her scalp. A low groan rumbled from the depths of her chest as his hands trailed their way across her jaw, tipping her chin upwards, drawing her face closer to his. She could feel his breath, sweet with fruit, against her lips. 

“You want me to fuck you,” he murmured, the words sounding strange and more than a little shocking in his cultured tones. 

Her eyes snapped open in surprise, briefly taken aback by the frankness of his statement. She hadn’t expected him to be quite so bold, nor so vulgar. A warm wetness began to pool between her thighs in expectation. 

He really was going to do it. Fuck her.

Giles. 

God, she’d thought of nothing else since this _thing_ , whatever it was, had begun. Longer, if she was honest with herself. And whilst his attentions had been nothing if not thorough, it just wasn’t enough. He never pushed, never took more than he gave, never left her anything less than completely satisfied. It was incredibly endearing, sweet even, yet so very frustrating. She wanted him. Completely. And, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise, she knew he wanted it too. 

She’d seen his reaction to her, to what he’d done to her, as much as he tried to hide it. The last time he’d tended to her, his fingers buried deeply within her soaking depths as he pleasured her, he had been so hard she’d have had to be blind not to notice. She’d been surprised he’d been able to walk with such an impressive erection, let alone with such haste, once he had left her sated almost to the point of senselessness upon the grass. And she knew exactly what he did once he was alone; it wasn’t the cryptic crossword in the back of the Times. 

She bit her lip as the thought of him fucking his hand, alone and desperate in the confines of his bedroom or bathroom, rose in her mind. A quiet groan escaped her as her brain helpfully supplied her with image of her former Watcher moaning his release, his hand wrapped tightly around his cock. His eyes dropped to her mouth, a look of raw hunger in them, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips in response.

He needed this as much as she did. 

“Yes,” she said, the words escaping her in a soft hiss. “Do you want to?”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he rose to his feet, holding out a hand. She took it, rising to her feet in front of him. 

Her eyes roved over him appreciatively, desire curling low in her belly. Perfect he was not, but she liked what she saw nonetheless. His broad chest tapering down to narrow hips. The ever so slight curve of his once flat belly, just beginning to soften with middle age and the inevitable toll of an increasingly sedentary lifestyle. And below that, the outline of his cock, pressed hard and insistent against the dark fabric of his jeans. 

God, she wanted to touch him. Feel the thick length of him beneath her palm. Buffy reached out a trembling hand to touch it, the tips of her fingers brushing against the stiff denim that encased him. 

“Now, you know better than that,” he said, grabbing her wrist just tightly enough to show he meant it. She let out a quiet grumble and he chuckled, pushing her hand away from him. “Take off your skirt.”

Eager to begin, Buffy made quick work of the button and zip, the terracotta fabric pooling around her ankles as she wriggled free. A gloriously wicked feeling spread through her chest as she heard his sharp intake of breath at the sight of her, naked save for the small halter neck that covered her chest. She wasn’t wearing knickers. 

An impish expression upon her face, she smoothed her palms across the soft flesh of her upper thighs, the tips of her fingers just grazing the edges of her intimate area as her hands made their way up to her stomach. She could feel the heat of his gaze, almost frighteningly intense, as he watched her cup her breasts though the soft cotton of her top. Slowly, she circled the stiff little peaks of her nipples through the cloth, delighting in the throb she felt between her thighs in response to her touch. 

A small groan, so soft she almost missed it, slipped from between Giles’ lips as he watched her. Buffy felt herself grow wetter at the sound, the tops of her thighs now slick with arousal. A sly smile on her lips, her hands rose to the knot of her halter neck, her nimble fingers beginning to loosen the tie. Just as the fabric came loose, two strong hands encircled her own, pulling them none too gently away from her neck as Giles drew her flush against him. 

“I don’t remember telling you to remove your top,” he said roughly, staring hotly at her over the tops of his glasses. 

Buffy moaned at the feel of him against her, all hot and hard and masculine. It made her ache with need. She pushed her hips against his, grinding against the hard ridge of his cock in an effort to relieve the overwhelming emptiness she felt. He abruptly released her and stepped back. 

The loss of heat and friction hit her almost devastatingly hard, bringing tears of frustration to her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, taking a step forward, desperate to feel him against her once more.

Giles held up a hand, halting her in her tracks. 

“On your hands and knees.”

She complied without a second thought, sinking down onto the soft grass at the edge of the picnic blanket. Settled on all fours, she watched from behind a curtain of blonde hair as Giles bent to pick something small and square from the box she had brought him. She shuddered as he trailed a long finger down the hollow of her spine, moving behind her and out of her line of sight. 

The rustle of fabric as Giles knelt behind her made her want to touch herself. It thrilled her to think of what he was doing back there, of what he was about to do. A tell-tale flash of silver foil caught her eye. Buffy grinned as she watched the empty condom packet flutter gently in the breeze, a wave of excitement crashing over her. 

“Do you still want this?”

She felt his skilful fingers lightly probe her slick cunt, the tip of his index finger sliding wetly over her clit. Buffy gasped, the words of her consent catching in her throat as a sharp stab of arousal flared in her abdomen. 

“Answer me,” he growled, punctuating his words with a swat of his hand against the curve of her arse.

“Yes,” she said, spreading her legs wider so he could settle between them. “I want this.”

“And what is it that you want?” His tone took on a teasing manner. He slowly circled her entrance with the tip of his finger, making her writhe beneath him in frustration. 

“I want you to fuck me.” 

“Good.” 

Suddenly his fingers were gone, only to be replaced moments later with the tip of his cock. He pushed forward, inching into her with an agonising slowness, stopping just as her wet heat fully engulfed the head. Buffy moaned at the intrusion, the tight ring of muscle near her entrance pleasurably stretched by the fullness of him. God, it felt good after months of nothing but the tease of his fingers and mouth. She pushed back against him, flexing her hips in an effort to draw him deeper. His fingers gripped her hips tightly, his nails biting into her soft flesh as he fought to still her beneath him. 

Giles moved with shallow, teasing thrusts, never sliding further than a few inches into her. She felt simultaneously full, yet so very empty. It was a maddening sensation. It burned deep within her, like an itch he refused to scratch. A low growl of frustration left her lips as she tried desperately to force him further into her cunt, each staccato thrust of her pelvis thwarted by the vice-like grip of his hands at her hips. Her fingers clawed into the grass beneath her as arousal curled painfully hot and tight in her belly. 

She was close. So very close and he’d barely even begun. Two inches of him, maybe three, and already she was there, right on the precipice, every fibre of her being longing for just that little bit more.

“Deeper. Please,” she gasped. “I need you. God, Rip, please.”

She heard an almost animalistic growl emanate from behind her in response to her impassioned pleas. He thrust into her hard, sheathing himself deep within her in a single, swift motion. A small cramp curled in her lower abdomen as he hit her cervix, the pain mixing with the intense pleasure she felt at the sudden fullness. She groaned, arching her back, the confusion of feelings making her muscles tense and clench around him in a vice-like grip as she came violently. 

“Fuck,” he moaned, his breathing shaky and shallow as he fought for control. He stayed stock still, his thick cock buried to the hilt within her, riding out the aftershocks of her orgasm with gritted teeth. 

Buffy barely had time to catch her breath before she felt him growl against her ear, “Up.”

Strong hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her back into a kneeling position upon his lap, his thighs between hers. The movement caused him to shift within her and she let out a throaty moan.

“You are not to move until I tell you,” he said, his voice low. “Understand?”

“Yes.” She nodded, her eyes fluttering shut as she felt his hand slide down to palm her breast. 

“Good.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her tightly against him. She could feel the buttons of his shirt pressed against the bare skin of her back, the scratch of his jeans against her inner thighs.

God, he was still dressed. He probably still had his glasses on too. She’d thought this time might be different, that taking a more active role might have incentivised him to lose the armour. For that was what it was, armour. Protection against her prying eyes, her questing fingers. But apparently not.

Were it not Giles, Buffy supposed she might have been offended by his reluctance to uncover himself. To lay himself bare before her, unguarded and unprotected, indecently exposed. But it was, and she wasn’t. He was a complicated sort of man and this was a complicated sort of arrangement. The rules were different. Besides, there was something so beautifully kinky about it, about him and his unwavering, if slightly twisted, sense of propriety. 

Buffy bit her lip at the thought of him, a hair’s breadth away from utter respectability as he fucked her into sweet, dreamless oblivion. The image of her former Watcher, desperately aroused yet fully clothed and in control, was sweetly erotic. Skin to skin contact at three points only: his lips, his hands and his cock, the rest of him separated by barrier of expensive cotton and crisp denim. Together yet separate. 

She spasmed involuntarily around him, her hips rolling a little at the sensation, drawing a low, ragged moan from his lips. His arm tightened around her, immobilising her from the waist down, the warning implicit in his actions. No movement. 

He teased her clit with the tips of his fingers, the feather-light touches making her keen softly into the cool night air. It was utterly maddening. Frustrated and immobile, she clenched around him, trying desperately to ease the throbbing ache deep between her thighs any way she could. She heard his breathing quicken as she tensed, her muscles vice-like around him, but still he did not move, his cock buried deep within her as he stroked the sensitive bundle of nerves with his hand. 

“Is this what you wanted?”

“No.”

“No?” he said, his tone teasing, his breath hot against the shell of her ear. “Then you’ll have to be more specific, Anne.”

A flash of white hot arousal knifed through her. She dropped her head back to rest on his shoulder with a moan. “God, Rip, I…”

“What do you want, Anne?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. “I rather thought I already was.”

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. 

“No,” she gasped. “Not like this. Hard. Fast.”

Buffy felt him release her from his tight grip and she pitched forward, thrusting her hands out in front of her to break her fall. She felt Giles rise behind her, entering her once more in a single, deep stroke. She moaned at the intrusion, clenching tightly around cock, drawing a strangled gasp of pleasure from him. His hands gripped her hips, his nails biting into her skin as she flexed her hips, drawing him deeper. With a deep grunt, he began to move hard and fast against her. She could feel the rough fabric of his jeans against the back of her legs, the tails of his shirt brush over her lower back as he thrust into her in quick, deep strokes. 

“God… don’t stop… Please.” 

She was close. She could feel the burn of her impending orgasm deep in her abdomen. Almost mindless in her pleasure, she rolled her hips with each of his forceful thrusts, his thick cock striking her deeply. Sweat beaded across her golden skin. 

“Fuck!”

She felt him tense behind her, losing his rhythm as he came hard within her. His release triggered her own, her cunt pulsing wetly around him as she crashed in a wave of intense pleasure, her mind blissfully blank.

\---

Buffy watched as Giles breezed around the kitchen, adding the finishing touches to their somewhat meagre meal of cheese and pickle sandwiches.

“I think you were right about the rain,” he mused as he set down their plates on the table. 

“Huh?” 

He chuckled at her confusion. “I rather think I’m going to take that as a complement.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He gestured at the sandwiches he’d prepared for her. “Eat.” 

Buffy turned her attention to her plate, suddenly aware of how hungry she really was. They ate in silence; the only sounds the hum of the fridge and the pitter patter of the rain upon the window. 

“I’m off to see family,” said Giles suddenly, breaking the relative peace of their meal. 

She looked up from her plate, a frown of confusion creasing her forehead. “Pardon?”

“In Edinburgh.”

“Oh.” 

His not-a-vacation. 

“Quite,” he replied tightly. 

It was as if a light bulb had been switched on. Suddenly, it was all starting to make sense. 

“Ah, I get it. Difficult relatives. Meddlesome aunts, embarrassing uncles, siblings with a decades old score to settle. Not that you have any. Siblings, I mean. At least, I’m pretty sure you don’t. Not that I imagine you’d tell me if you did.” She shook her head briefly. “Anyway, getting back to the point, I guess you don’t want to see them? Hence the doom and gloom?” she said, stuffing what remained of her cheese sandwich into her mouth to prevent further babble. 

“No, I do, it’s just…”

She swallowed. “Complicated?”

“Something like that,” he said, running a hand through his greying hair, his gaze not quite meeting hers. 

He gave her a tight smile before picking up his sandwich, taking a small bite from the corner. 

“I understand, Giles.”

He nodded. 

“Do you have any plans whilst I’m away? Since you have a free weekend. Not that you can’t come here,” he added, hastily. “Without me, that is. I want you to feel free to come and go as you like. It’s your garden too, now.”

Buffy let him change the subject. She’d got more from him than she’d expected to. And yeah, she understood; families were complicated. Lord knew hers was no exception.

She’d let him keep his secrets. For now, at least. 

“I know,” she said, giving Giles’ hand a friendly pat. “As for the weekend, I don’t know. Might do the whole girls’ night out thing with Willow and Xander. Have some London fun.”

Giles frowned. “Girls night out?” 

“The man likes his cocktails,” she said with a shrug. 

“I can’t really argue with that.” 

They lapsed into silence once more. She glanced over at her former Watcher, noting the stiffness with which he held himself. Whilst the deep sadness she had observed earlier in the afternoon appeared to have abated, she knew, deep down, it was still there. Bubbling away under the surface.

Buffy sighed. She’d tried her best, but if he wasn’t going to tell her, there wasn’t much more she could do. No matter. Whatever the cause, she wanted to be there for him. It was the least she could do. 

“I’ll be here when you get back,” she said firmly, taking a sip of her now lukewarm tea. 

His eyes widened in surprise. “You really don’t have to be.”

“No, I want to.” She gave him a wide grin. “Besides, what else are friends for?”

Giles placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Buffy. That means a lot to me.”

“Careful, Giles,” said Buffy, jabbing him lightly in the ribs. “That British reserve of yours is slipping.”

He rolled his eyes. 

“Eat your dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of the Sanctuary Series, Confluence, coming December 2016.


End file.
